


Imagine: Castiel pulling out every trick up his sleeve (or, you know, in his pockets) to cheer you up when you’re having a rough week.

by webcricket



Series: Castiel Imagines [1]
Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 00:47:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13329942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket





	Imagine: Castiel pulling out every trick up his sleeve (or, you know, in his pockets) to cheer you up when you’re having a rough week.

The blue-eyed seraph’s gaze narrows decisively – he’s been observing you for nigh on ten minutes from his dawdling position in the doorway. You haven’t moved so much as a hair’s breadth in that time. Bent over your desk, palms pressed to your temples, lashes squeezed tight, you’re fully submerged and drowning your woe in an apocalyptic bass assault raging on iPod repeat.

He moves into the room to stand beside you, arms and trench coat swaying as he calmly contemplates your unresponsive repose. Reaching out to gently touch your shoulder, he asks, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” you spit out in answer – a defensive reflex. Instinct generally informs you not to disclose any weaknesses. Even in front of well-meaning angels.

“This doesn’t sound like nothing.” He presses a blinking button on the top of the blaring speaker, silencing it, noting, “Nothing is a lot quieter. And darker. I’ve been there.”

You want to scowl at him, want to redirect some of the frustration you’re feeling, but glancing up at his concerned countenance you can’t muster the initiative to be pissed at him for interrupting your wallow. Defeated by those summer sky-hued irises of his, you mutter, “It’s been a rough week.”

“It’s only Tuesday.” His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left in that endearing heart-melting manner he has mastered.

How perfectly innocent. You sigh heavily, “And?”

His eyebrows twitch upward. “And?” he repeats your question, evidently not understanding it’s meant to be rhetorical.

“And?” you echo, mostly because you can and just to see what he does next.

His face scrunches in further confusion.

You didn’t think it was humanly possible for him to be more adorable – and maybe it isn’t humanly possible, but it definitely is angelically possible. He’s already incandescent, which is why the proverbial light bulb turning on in his mind and illumining his features brighter is somewhat surprising.

“And-” he states with clarity and self-assurance as if he has found an actual answer to the unanswerable question. A small smile tugs his mouth as he proceeds to pat the multitude of external and internal coat pockets garmenting his person. Fingers delving into the inside upper flap of his suit coat, his smile blooms, spilling radiantly to illuminate the whole of the room.

You squint up at him as though peering into the sun itself.

He produces a rather befuddled appearing baby tortoise, thrusting the tiny creature closer to you on his upturned palm so that your vision crosses in an attempt to focus on it.

The knobby-shelled critter emerges from his fortress. It blinks slowly and stares at you first with one marbled beady eye, then the other.

“What the-?” You grin in spite of yourself and your crappy week and pluck the tortoise from Cas’ palm to caress the smooth cool skin of his lime green noodle.

“His name is Fred. He’s a baby-”

“-tortoise,” you interject. “Yeah, got that. Why-”

“-do I have a baby tortoise in my pocket?” Cas finishes. He points to a jagged healing gash on the rear slope of the shell. “I suppose you could say he’s having a rough week.”

Your eyes rove curiously over the angel, brow quirking askance. “What else you got hidden in those pockets?”

Cas does not hesitate to pull a glass bottle of amber liquid and two shot glasses from another impossibly deep potentially trans-dimensional pocket. He sets them on the desk in front of you.

“Is that?”

“Vanilla whiskey.”

“That’s my-”

“-favorite?” He wears a rare triumphant grin. “I know.”

And just like that your week got a whole heck of a lot better.


End file.
